Things Never Said
by staceycj
Summary: Dean's four months in Hell. Sam is topside trying to figure out a way to save his brother, and he finds the words that Dean was never able to say about family, hunting, and his life.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is the last new story I will post for a while. I need to finish the others :) I will be writing and posting, I just won't be starting anything new. Just an FYI

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Building a coffin, instead of destroying one. Cleaning the body, instead of telling Dean to go take a shower because he smelled. Dressing the body, instead of throwing a bundle of clothes at Dean and saying "get dressed you are not God's gift." Laying Dean's body inside of the homemade coffin, instead of carrying him to the Impala after a minor injury. Burying the body instead of digging up a body to salt and burn. Saying goodbye instead of hello. All of it was too much. Way too much. It was incomprehensible. It was something that Sam Winchester simply could not accept.

Sam worked tirelessly after his brother's death, he looked through every single text Bobby had before he disappeared in the middle of the night. He hardly spoke, he hardly ate, he hardly showered, how could he when Dean was gone, when Dean was in Hell burning, in pain, in agony? How could he take comfort in a warm shower?

In an abandoned house, in the middle of nowhere, Sam was scouring a text he found at a local rummage sale. It was a book on Hell and Sam's eyes began to tear as he read the information on what exactly it was like down there, when he came across something that felt like he should know. Felt like he had seen or faced before. He got up from the table and went to his duffel bag, hurriedly searching through his things for Dad's journal. It wasn't there. He went to the Impala and tore through the car, the trunk all of it. Came up with nothing.

Sam starred at the single green duffel sitting in the back seat and knew, knew with every fiber in his being that his brother had been the last one with the journal and it was in there, it was in that bag, and Sam would have to open it, be assaulted with the scent of his brother, with the very feel of Dean, and dig through clothes that had once housed his brother, that once had kept him warm, and locate the journal that his brother prized almost as much as the car that it was inside of.

Sam swallowed hard, he needed that journal, he needed it to save his brother. He reached for it and grabbed it and opened it quickly. He reached inside and grabbed all of the books that were inside. He jerked his hand out of the bag and slammed the car door shut and went back inside of the house trying not to remember the feel of his brother's jeans against his hands.

He scoured his father's journal and found nothing that resembled the information that he had read. He went and looked at his own journal and found nothing. The only journal that was left was Dean's. Sam looked at the offending black book and reached out and took a swig from the bottle that was sitting on the table.

Opening the book not only meant finding the information but it also meant that he would have to look at Dean's scribbles, have to read his brother's handwriting, and hear his brother's voice in his head as he read the words his brother had painstakingly recorded. Sam wasn't sure he could handle that, wasn't sure that he wouldn't' collapse into a heap of raw emotions.

Running a hand through his hair he decided that the possibility of getting Dean out of hell was worth the emotional break down. He grabbed the book and sat down on the floor, back against the wall and took a deep breath, and then a swig of the hard stuff that was sitting next to his knee and braced himself.

**Regrets **

1. That I didn't get married

2. That I never had children

3. That I never had a real job

4. That I didn't tell Dad off

5. That I pulled Sam out of school

6. That I never told the people in my life I loved them

7. That Ben wasn't my son

8. That I never told Sam the rest of that dream

9. That I never finished high school

10. That I hit Sam after Dad died

11. That..

**Accomplishments**

1. That I raised Sam

2. I killed the YED

3. That I rebuilt the Impala

4. I taught Sam to think for himself

5.

A fat tear plopped down on the paper. This wasn't Dean's hunting journal. This was Dean's death journal. This was the one that Sam had caught Dean writing in, in the middle of the night when he thought Sam was asleep, this is the one that Sam had never wanted to read, the one he knew was full of the things that he wanted to tell Sam and wasn't able. And here it was in black and white, Dean's regrets, which outweighed the accomplishments in Dean's mind.

Sam pulled his long legs up to his chin, held the book close to his heart, and reduced his 6'4 frame to a small quaking ball in the corner of a rat infested, filthy, abandoned home. Sam cried and cried, wished his brother was back, wished that he hadn't given up his life for him, wished that he had killed Jake before Jake had killed him, wished that Dean thought more of himself, wished that Dean had left him dead….


	2. Chapter 2

Sam tried to put Dean's journal away, tried to never look at it again, that first page, that first single page with his regrets and his accomplishments was enough to put him into a drunken stupor for almost three says straight. All Sam remembered was waking up, throwing up, and laying in his own filth for two days. He didn't have the strength to get back up, didn't have the energy to go on living. So he promised himself that he wouldn't read any more of the journal. That he wouldn't do that to himself again.

Days past and he cleaned himself up a little bit, and every time his eyes strayed away from the ancient tome he was currently researching they landed on the black leather journal that no matter where he put it never seemed to be out of his sight.

It called to him, constantly whispered his name, asked him to come and open it and continue to read its pages. On a night that was particularly dark, particularly oppressive, and particularly lonely, he succumbed to its whispers. He held the journal on his lap for a spell, just starring at it, thinking that maybe just holding it would hold off the need to read the inked pages. His hand caressed the leather and before he knew what he was about the book was opened and he was flipping to the second page.

_Sam is furious with me. No real surprise there. But I wish that he could see this from my perspective. I HAD to do it. I didn't have another choice. He was laying there, dead, not moving, not breathing, not anything. Lifeless. Sam has always been so full of life, always moving, always thinking, always moving twitching something. And there he was…completely gone. His body nothing more than that…a body. _

_Now that I think about it, I don't really want him to be able to see it from my perspective. But I guess my choice will make sure that he does see it from that perspective. It is a horrible thing to lose a brother. It is almost beyond words, well I'm sure college boy would have the words, but I don't. All I know was that it was like dying myself. That woman way back when with the little boy who died in the lake, the way she described losing him, that is how I felt. She was right, that is what it feels like to lose someone. It is worse than dying ._

_But what a mess I've made. I had to. I just did. I love him so much. Even when he was at Stanford I knew that he was still there, that all I had to do was pick up the phone and he would be there, yelling, huffing, frustrated, whatever. He would be there. But, carrying him to that abandoned house, nothing more than dead weight, I couldn't do it._

_He called me selfish today, he's right, I am selfish. But, I couldn't do anything else. He's always been my responsibility, my life, without him what am I good for? When he was at Stanford I was lost, purposeless, a soldier without orders, without a unit, I simply existed. And when I saw him on that bed, when my heart finally heard what my brain knew that my brother was dead, I didn't want to go on living. I simply wanted to stop. Wanted to just die right along side of him. Normal people aren't like that. Their sibling dies, they pick themselves back up and move along. Not me. If he's not here I don't want to be either._

_I raised Sam to be stronger than that. When I go, when they take me to Hell, he won't want to die. He'll keep on going, he's strong enough. I taught him to think for himself, to be his own man. He doesn't need me. Right now he's furious because I did it for him, because he feels guilty. But he'll be fine. He won't need to find a crossroads. He won't fall into the same trap I did. _

_I hope that when the time comes, and the hell hounds come for me, that Sam isn't around. I don't want him to see it. That's the only comfort I can give him. That's the only pain I hope I can spare him…._

_God I hope I didn't screw up._

Sam's tears were in a free flow. He hiccupped and sobbed. He did need his big brother, he wasn't as strong as Dean made him out to be.

"You stupid son of a bitch!" Sam yelled and threw the book against the wall, then took of one of his shoes and threw it against the wall, causing paint and splinters of wood to dribble from the wall's decaying wood. 

"You screwed up! You fucking screwed up!" Sam's voice echoed off of the walls. "How could you just leave me?!" He screamed. He threw the empty whisky bottle at the wall and it shattered and took more of the wall with it. He continued to rage against his dead brother, throwing whatever he could get his hands on and screaming himself hoarse. The last bottle he threw took him off balance and he fell to the floor in a heap of limbs and clothes and fell onto his side and cried. "Dean…" he whispered and he pulled his legs up to his chin and cried himself into a fitful sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

When he spent himself, when he was sitting on the floor exhausted, half drunk, his mind began to work at the journal again. Began to wonder what was inside, began to crave the sound of his brother's words even if the voice was only in his head. The journal was all he had left of his brother. Sure he had the car, and he had his brother's duffel bag, but those were just things, those were just things his brother loved. They didn't necessarily have any of his brother inside of them. The car did have something of Dean inside of it, but it spoke a language he didn't understand, a language he had never understood, and without Dean physically here to explain it to him, the Impala and Sam were nothing more than silent partners, neither knowing how to communicate without a translator.

But the journal that was sitting in his lap, that was speaking a language he understood. And he craved his brother, like an addiction. He hadn't realized how much he had relied on Dean, hadn't realized just how much he had depended on the knowledge, even while at Stanford, that Dean was nothing more than a phone call away.

His fingers found their way into the pages, and dug until he got to the page he left off on. He closed his eyes, tried to convince himself that he didn't want to read the page, didn't want to feel the rage, the pain, the sadness that he knew would accompany the words. He wanted to be a reasonable young man, wanted to know that he didn't need the words. But, some small corner of his soul, which seemed to be becoming larger with each passing day, said that his brother was in the hot box hurting every single second for him, and there would be no reprieve, no ability to say that he didn't want to read something and spare himself the pain, so why should he be able to spare himself pain.

_We've spent all day pretending to be on a hunt. Well, I've been on a hunt, Sam's been distracted with my impending departure. I have a year, I mean, it's not like I'm leaving tomorrow. I want him to spend the time with me. _

_I only have a year, I don't want to spend the next 11 months 28 days watching him research how to save me and then ultimately not find a way. It's chick flicky but I want to be able to spend my remaining days with him, Bobby, and the Impala, not watching them research and ignoring me. _

_I get why he's doing it. But he's wasting his time. There is no "cure" for this one. I knew what I was doing when I did it, I understood the terms and the rules, and I am not a man to go back on my word. The results were worth it. Worth waking up every day and seeing my baby brother in the bed next to me. He used to sleep, now he just stays awake most of the time and stares or researches and I pretend that I don't notice, that I'm asleep, but honestly, most nights I listen to the keys tap and the pages flip. I think last night he was crying, I'm not positive, but I think so. That right there made me roll over and pretend to sleep harder. _

_There isn't a point in crying for me. I knew what I was doing. Sam is strong enough to take care of himself. I'm just a simple chess piece lost in the game of good vs evil, I'm nothing special, or important. I'm just a man. My death will have no impact on the world. Sam and Bobby will be sad for a while, but they'll get over it, keep fighting the good fight, and all will be okay. It's not like I was going to cure cancer or something. I'm just an uneducated, brash, cocky, son of a bitch, losing me won't make a difference, hell it might even help. Maybe Sammy won't feel so controlled, or smothered, or whatever else he keeps telling people when I'm not around. Maybe he'll be able to leave this life, go on, and be happy. God knows I don't make him happy, I'm just a good little soldier, I'm just a mindless witless, automaton. What do I know? _

_Gonna go try and get Sam to go to the bar across the street for a beer, shoot the shit, like we used to, before I started all of this._

Sam had cried so much in the last several days that his skin was raw and when the new set of salt tears rolled down his face they burned.

"Dean." he mumbled and closed the book and held it close. He looked up at the ceiling, his hazel eyes nothing more than free flowing puddles. He felt the tears track down the side of his face, wet his longish hair, and run into his ears. Regret pooled in his stomach. He had said those words to others, told Meg that he felt like Dean was dragging him around the country, called Dean all of those nasty things when he was under the influence of Dr. Ellicot, complained to Bobby that Dean was too bossy. What he wouldn't give right now for all of that. What he wouldn't give to hear Dean call him Sammy, and then tell him to hurry up, quit being a girl…

How many times had Dean tried to get him to go out and do something instead of research? How many times had he yelled at his brother, claimed that he didn't understand the weight of the problem? He did understand. He just couldn't stand the idea of not being able to enjoy what he sacrificed his soul for. He just wanted time, wanted to spend time, wanted to enjoy the time that he had.

He put his face in his hands and then ran a hand through his hair pulling at the thick brown locks.

"I'm so sorry Dean." He whispered. Gone was the rage, and in its place all consuming guilt took residence and tightened its tendrils around his heart and prepared for the long haul.


	4. Chapter 4

The guilt fueled the fire in Sam's belly, and he researched for days on end, coffee as the only means of his sustained consciousness. He had to find the answer, had to find a way to bring his brother back from the dead. He hadn't been a good brother to him, hadn't deserved this grand of a sacrifice, hadn't deserved anything he had been given his whole life. Dean deserved to be living, he didn't so he researched and pushed his body beyond its limits.

As he researched he journal called to him from his duffel bag, and Sam had ignored it, told himself that he didn't need to read it, didn't need the guilt to be fueled any further.

But then somewhere between the 43rd and the 44th hour he realized that he was doing to the journal what he had been doing to his brother….ignoring him. That made him jump up so fast the chair clattered to the floor. He rushed to the black leather, his hands trembling from grief and sleep deprivation. He slid to the floor, the rough broken wood catching on his jeans tearing them, and his skin. And he held it close to his body, "I'm sorry." He whispered over and over again to the journal. He closed his eyes amid his chant and wished that the leather would morph into his brother, wished that it was Dean yelling to let go of him, Dean calling him a girl, Dean telling him that brothers didn't hug, something, anything other than simply the black leather journal.

He opened it, trembling hands making the work harder than it should, and he carefully flipped the page to the one he had not read yet. He had to hear his brother, to pay attention to his brother, no more ignoring him.

_Another fight in the car. God I am sick to death of fighting with Sam. Even when we were kids we didn't fight nearly as much as we fight now. We fight over stupid things, big things, and things in the middle. Today, we fought over where I left one of the flash lights. It was just under a gun, no big deal, but he ripped me a new one for leaving it in a place that could have gotten it hurt. In case he's missed how much of a disaster the trunk is, I don't think that the flashlight being underneath the gun is going to matter much. _

_Then we fought over where we would eat. Then we fought over what I ate. Apparently the way I eat now is like a big screw you. I haven't changed anything that I've done, but apparently I'm eating like I'm going to die. I didn't know I could do that. I didn't know that when you ate you had a sign on your head that said 'I'm eating like I'm going to die.'_

_He's just so angry. I know that's why he's constantly mad at me. I didn't want him angry with me. There are times that I wish that Sam wasn't smart. No kid really should have been able to figure out that Dad fought monsters, not really, but my kid brother is so smart that he figured it out. I wish that he hadn't figured out that I sold my soul for him. I really wish that I could have just disappeared and died without him knowing why or how. I think that would have gone easier on him. I could have pretended that everything was all right and we wouldn't be here, me writing in this stupid thing and Sam at yet another university library, we seem to stop at every single one, and pouring himself over yet another volume that isn't going to do jack squatt and just get his hopes up and then let him down again. It's awful to see that look in his eye. _

_I realized something today while we were in the car and I was being screamed at because of something stupid, I quit listening after the fourth time he said "Dean" in that tone that says he's aggravated and getting ready to yell loud enough to echo off of the car doors. I realized that I will die on my brother's birthday. The gift I will give my brother will be my death. Wow, I sure as hell didn't think that out too well now did I? But that's what I do. I can screw up a…well…anything that's good really. I never have had the knack for making things better, just for making them worse. Sam died on his 23__rd__ birthday, and he'll lose the rest of his family on his 24__th__. Wow. I wonder if he would have been happier if I had just let him be dead. I wonder if I pulled him out of heaven. If any soul belonged in heaven it is my little brother who, despite yelling at me all day, is sitting in a library trying to figure out how to save me. _

_I've just screwed up his life. If I hadn't have gotten him from Stanford, Jessica would be alive, and he wouldn't be worrying about me. He wouldn't' have died. None of this would have happened. Sam should be so angry with me that he wants me dead. I deserve hell….Well maybe not hell, but I certainly don't deserve to end up in a heaven. I should just blink out of existence. No harm no foul. _

Tears continued their never ending tracks down Sam's face and he closed the book and held it to his chest. The sobs were softer now, but no less violent. Sam had forgotten completely that he had had a birthday. Dean usually reminded him, gave him a Twinkie with a candle in it, let him drive, asked him what he wanted to do for the day, went to stupid museums that Dean would never have gone to otherwise. This year he simply wanted to forget the day, because his birthday for now to eternity was colored with his brother's blood, perfumed with Dean's eviscerated bowls and stomach, and textured with sticky blood. It was most certainly not a day for celebration.


	5. Chapter 5

Ruby came. Ruby stopped the drinking. Ruby showed him how to be strong. Ruby changed him. He had left the journal in his bag after she showed up and changed things. Sam didn't need the constant comfort of his big brother's words anymore. He had Ruby, and she was going to help him get his revenge, then he would die, either by his own hand, or by something else's. He didn't really care, as long as he was dead. Sam wanted to be with his brother, he knew he wouldn't get to go to heaven, especially after what he had been doing with Ruby, so if nothing else he could at least be close to Dean in the afterlife, and they could, perhaps, become demons together.

He had day dreams of getting tortured next to his brother, and Dean asking what he was doing down there, and he never gave Dean an adequate reason, but they would be side by side again, and this time, nothing was going to take the other away. They would be the most powerful demon force in all of the universe. Sure, he knew the daydream was horrible, and defied everything that made Sam, Sam, but he was fairly certain that he had destroyed himself when he took that first sip of demon blood, when he felt the first surgings of demonic power running through his veins.

Ruby had just left Sam to his own devices, mere minutes ago, and he was already indulging himself in his fantasies. He was going to take the bottle of Jack that was in his duffel and consume it while she wasn't around. He would sneak it, get so drunk that he wouldn't feel the pain, wouldn't hear the power that now thrummed in his ears almost constantly, wouldn't commit suicide before he could complete his mission.

He pulled the bottle out of the duffel and the journal, along with some other things spilled out of the bag. He looked at it. Held the bottle in one hand and starred at the journal. How long had it been since he had read the words? Weeks? Yes, definitely weeks, since he had read the words, heard his brother's voice. He licked his lips and before he could think twice he swiped the book and like a wounded and scared animal, took his bottle and book into a corner and sat down to indulge and lick his wounds.

He took a swig of liquid courage and leafed to the first unread page.

_Today I accused Sammy of changing, and he told me that I was right, which was not exactly the answer that I had been anticipating, and he told me that he's changed to be more like me. That really blew my mind. I mean, really, am I that much of a dick? Am I really that heartless, cold, calculating? I never pictured myself as any of those. I'm not exactly the most sophisticated guy on the block, but I didn't think I was that bad. And seeing my qualities in Sammy's personality, sits with me wrong. My little brother is kind, loving, caring, the champion of mankind. He isn't anything like me and I never want him to be anything like me. _

_So, I guess I don't understand. I don't know why he thinks that being like me is a good thing, because if it was, God knows I wouldn't be going to hell in a few months, I would be rich beyond belief, and living in the best house, and I'd be married and have children. I wouldn't be stuck in this quicksand of evil, I wouldn't be so dependant on my brother that I would sell my soul for him. I would have let him die, I would have let him go to Heaven, if there is a heaven. My life would be so different. So different._

_I'm just tired. Tired of the job, tired of this life, tired of this crap motel. I would love to spend my last days, with my brother, at Bobby's, working on cars, maybe meet a great girl and get to know her a little, but I don't want to be hunting. I don't want to deal with anymore demons, I don't want to watch my baby brother turn into something cold and decidedly not Sam. My brother should have the bleeding heart. That's who he is. That's who I always want him to be. God, I don't ask for much, I've never asked for anything, but please don't let my brother change when I die. Let him continue being the man he's always been, the man I raised and am proud of, the man I wish I could have been._

Sam reread the last paragraph several times and before he knew it he was crying again, he thought that he had forgotten how to cry, forgotten how to grieve. Dean would be so disappointed in him, and that alone destroyed a piece of him. He had become what Dean didn't want, and there was no going back.


End file.
